


Complex in its Simplicity

by Ozma



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First times aren't supposed to be magical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complex in its Simplicity

**Author's Note:**

> Aged up Arya, but still underage.

She’s seen men before. Even if she does not consider her brothers, the sight of a cock is not unfamiliar. Arya could enter any tavern from the Wall to Dorne and find a man and woman together in a corner while the entire common room looks pointedly in any direction but theirs. Many men seem to take great pleasure in showing their anatomy off; Arya never quite understood the appeal, most likely because she’s never had one. The “feminine innocence” ruse some women seem so fond of playing at has never seemed more absurd; they know just as well as Arya what men do with themselves. The young woman sees no point of pretending. When her new husband leans over her and uses his knee to spread her legs, Arya keeps her expression carefully neutral.  
  
 _"It will hurt."_ The bedmaids she was assigned had twittered while they prepared her for the ceremony. Arya only nodded and kept her own council on the matter. She refused to say more than ten words to the annoying girls. Let them draw their own misguided conclusions; no doubt their empty heads were filled with vibrant, assumptive fantasies about the Hand and his young wife – she saw no reason to correct them.  
  
She is not surprised when he enters her, but the quick, sharp pain that results is entirely unexpected. Arya believed her maidenhead to have been broken many years past, from her riding. It’s no great loss, but if she was a romantic, Arya might have believed this moment to be of some import: the intimate union that declares her as the lady wife to the Warden of the West, in truth, not just name. But she is not her sister; all Arya feels is a slight ache, far weaker than any of the pain she experienced after leaving King’s Landing, that progressively dims each time he pushes himself into her.  
  
Arya’s curiosity piques, inquisitive nature drawn out by her surprise. The young woman has no idea what to do, how she should react – all of the whores scream in pleasure, but she doubts Tywin would be amused by that, and Arya refuses to make such a spectacle. She supposes it is much like pleasing herself, but the traditionally simple matter becomes much more complex with the addition of a second body. All of her previous knowledge proves irrelevant. Should she draw him close, or would he prefer her arms remain by her side? Should she spread her legs farther, or curl them around him?  
  
Arya does not expect to enjoy it. For all that sex is spoken of as romantic, of how it unites two bodies as one, and whatever else Sansa's tales claim, both partners care little about such sentimentality. So when her abdomen warms and her breaths quicken, she’s shocked and more than slightly bewildered.  
  
“Look at me.” Tywin speaks the command as he senses her discomfort. Arya realizes her mistake and immediately looks back up to his eyes, beautiful and cold, like the frosted evergreens in the North. Feeling newly bold, Arya offers him a smile and moves her arms up and around his neck. He shows little reaction to her familiarity, beyond brushing a strand of hair from her face, before he continues.  
  
There is no hesitation in the way he pushes in and draws out, but Tywin is not indifferent to her comfort. He treats her body with a strange respect, more than she’s ever shown herself; his touches speak more softly than his words ever can. Sometimes he runs his fingers across her stomach and hips, as if in assessment, soft and approving.  
  
The sex is a feral act, bestial and primitive - it seems so out of place to see the Hand so expressive, even if only in lust. Yet still, even in the midst of pleasure, he always looks into her eyes, placid and alert, steady and unyielding. What Tywin cannot say with words, he whispers with his body; even in their unrefined union, she finds comfort.  



End file.
